Soldiers
by DoctorNicotine
Summary: Sherlock is in a coma after the Great Game. John is overjoyed when finally he wakes up. But is Sherlock still the same man? And what of newfound feelings for both of them? Slash, spoilers and cursing.
1. The End

Their breath billowed out into the cold air, and John desperately wished to be anywhere but here, for more reasons than just the weather.

Sherlock stood beside him, staring at the rubble with a face contorted by emotion.

John grabbed his hand in a comforting gesture. "You alright?"

"Mph," was the reply.

Sherlock ducked under the tape and lightly stepped onto the broken concrete.

John glanced around quickly, and then followed him under.

Sherlock was muttering to himself, pacing towards the ruined structure metal of the building.

John followed more slowly, watching fearfully for any chances of concrete falling on them.

"So many memories, John. Oh god, so many memories." He stared almost wistfully at the remains of the doors where Moriarty had first stepped in through. "Everything is coming back so quickly…"

John reached for his hand again.

"I know. Me too."

And there they stood, hand in hand, comrades joined by an endless, bitter war. Two lone soldiers, battling against everything they knew.


	2. Beginning

John lowered his head into his hands, feeling utterly defeated. He groaned. That was such a cliché: 'utterly defeated' and he was sure Sherlock would have scolded him for not trying to be more eloquent.

But in his defence, it had been days since he had last slept, and he could hardly keep his eyes open now.

John forced himself not to groan again. Was he really so tired that he was having an argument with himself?

"Doctor Watson…"

John slowly turned around in his chair to see Mycroft looking down at him with a concerned expression. He saw Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't quite feel it. Ignoring that fact, but still recognizing that he should be concerned that he couldn't feel his shoulder, he turned back to Sherlock.

"Doctor, you should rest at home. It's not good for you to sleep at the hospital. I have a car outside waiting to take you to Baker Street."

John's gaze didn't move from Sherlock's hospital bed.

"But, what if he wakes up?" John whispered, his voice rough.

"Then Mummy or I will be here for him."

John was still hesitant, and his eyes kept flicking to the door. He couldn't even remember ever seeing Mycroft and Sherlock's mother since they first arrived at the emergency room.

"John. Go home." Not a request or a suggestion this time, but a demand.

The army doctor nodded his head at Mycroft and slowly stretched up out of his uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock's head. John reached out to grab his pale, slender hand, but pulled away at the last second, his medical instincts kicking in. It was hard to remember that coma patients sometimes responded negatively to being touched.

John didn't say a word as he walked out of the room and made his way downstairs to sign out of the clinic. He never talked to the driver since he knew Mycroft told him where to go already. He locked himself in his flat, ignoring the cries of concern from Mrs Hudson. He took a long hot shower, made a steaming cup of tea and stood in the centre of his cluttered living room. He spun around, taking in the remnants of Sherlock's evidence from the Game taped to the walls.

"Fuck."

The first time he gets a chance to be alone and finally say what he wished, of course that was the first word out of his mouth.

"Fuck." He sobbed, dropping into Sherlock's preferred chair by the fireplace.

"This is all my fault!" he began to rant, not caring if Mrs Hudson heard him. "My fault! I could have stopped Sherlock from coming to the damn pool; I could have stopped him from playing Moriarty's damn game! Shit, I could have stopped Moriarty myself if I thought to bring my gun with me!"

He was pacing across the floor now, hardly knowing what he was doing.

"And then Sherlock had to go and blow up a fucking bomb that put him in a coma and I can't do a thing! I'm a doctor for god's sake and I can't do a thing!"

He heard someone tapping on the door, and, assuming it was Mrs Hudson, he ignored it and continued pacing. Soon the tapping turned into pounding.

"Doctor Watson!" It was Anthea voice and she sounded more than a little agitated.

"Shit." John couldn't help but mutter as he rushed for the door. "What's wrong? Has he gone critical?" He feared the worst.

"No, thank god."

John was shocked to hear her say this, it almost sounded like she actually cared about what happened to Sherlock. John barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

"There's been some progress." She held up her hand. "Now, don't get too excited. He's barely starting to gain consciousness again."

"Any excuse to disobey Mycroft is good enough for me. C'mon!" He joked, brushing past Anthea, not bothering to grab his coat on his way out. Finally, some progress with Sherlock, who wouldn't be excited? Well, besides Anderson.

But something was nagging him in the back of his mind. The doctor in him was screaming about how he had better enjoy this feeling while it lasted, because the real battle was just beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

"How is he?" John practically ran up to Mycroft and the trauma nurse he was talking to.

"Better. He's been moving slightly, but he's still not strong enough to fully wake up. Then again, he is a Holmes," Mycroft smiled fondly at his younger brother. "He could be up and solving crimes with Greg in a matter of hours."

John glanced at him with a quizzical look. Greg? He must have meant Lestrade.

He opened his mouth to ask him why he called Lestrade by his first name, but before he could Sherlock began to groan and roll around in his bed. John hastened to his bedside.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and continued to thrash around and clutch at the thin hospital blankets.

"The effect of the coma is still too strong. He's getting disoriented. We need something to calm him a bit." John pulled Sherlock's eyelids open and used the penlight a nurse gave him to check his pupils.

Mycroft ushered another nurse to help John. The nurse quickly switched out Sherlock's normal saline drip with another IV.

John watched as Sherlock slowly calmed a little, but didn't quite stop tossing.

The nurse stared at Sherlock, looking confused. "I don't understand. That should have completely calmed him."

"Sorry," John wasn't sure why he needed to apologize. "He has a history of drug use. He's pretty immune to a lot of stuff now."

The nurse nodded and thankfully didn't ask John anything more. Moments later Sherlock was completely still but the rise and fall of his chest.

Again resisting the urge to reach out to Sherlock, John turned back to Mycroft, who standing at the end of the bed with a blank expression.

"I hope you understand, but I can't go home now. I need to be here for him."

Mycroft only nodded, trying to avoid John's eyes.

"Of course Doctor. If you will excuse me, I must tell our mother, and Greg as well, of his progress."

As he walked out of the room, John thought about how all of this was affecting the eldest of the Holmes brothers. He did not know how it felt to see a relative in a trauma-induced coma, but this was not the first case of it he had seen. John silently cursed himself. Why hadn't he seen how this was wearing on him? He hadn't seen Mycroft leave the hospital once, which had to be difficult with his hectic career.

Glancing out the small door windows, he saw Lestrade and Mycroft standing close together, clearly quietly talking. Without warning Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft and buried his face into his shoulder. John turned away, blushing deeply for spying on their private moment.

Not knowing what else to do, John picked up the book Mycroft had left on the bedside table.

"Latin. Of course, only a Holmes would read Latin for fun."

He squinted at the old binding.

"I used to take Latin in college, before I joined the army. I wonder…"

He opened the book delicately and began to read aloud.

"Quis sanare curationum? Quisoccideret si non milites pugnantes? Bella non dimicavit cum arma viros. Bonus bello cedunt daemonescurrat."

John ran a hand through his hair, closing the text.

"Doesn't make a lick of sense."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock's mouth move.

"Oh my… You smirked. Oh god, even in a coma you still think I'm stupid." He laughed. His first genuine laugh in days, he realized.


	4. Chapter 4

It would be a few more days until Sherlock would fully start to wake up, with John and Mycroft at his side. John wasn't sure how many days it was before he was even coherent.

He watched as Sherlock opened his eyes and quietly growled at bright light.

"Mycroft?" he nodded at his brother. "What has happened?"

Mycroft gave him a relieved smile but didn't move closer. "You were in a coma for about 10 days. Severe brain trauma from the bomb at the pool."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Bomb? What the hell are you on about?"

"Memory loss, from the original trauma and from being in a coma for so long." John murmured.

Sherlock grimaced again. "Who's this? He doesn't look like a doctor."

John felt shocked. He knew he shouldn't, Sherlock had barely just met him really. It was natural that he would remember his brother but not anyone else.

He coughed. "No... No, just a friend of Mycroft's. But I am a doctor, I..." he stopped, unable to continue.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Are you alright?"

John froze. Was that... empathy? From Sherlock bloody Holmes? He stepped back from Sherlock's bed.

"Mycroft? Could I have a word?"

Walking out in the brightly lit hallway they met Lestrade pacing back and forth.

"How is he? Is he fully awake?" Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's shoulder. Not in a forceful way, but in a 'making sure you're alright' way.

"He's awake. He knows me, but does not remember Doctor Watson."

"Could I try? I've known him longer than John." Lestrade moved his arm down to clutch Mycroft's hand, not caring who saw them.

But John wasn't focusing on them, he had retreated into himself. What would he do without that impossible man? No more running through alleys chasing murderers, no more pretend drugs busts, no more denying that they were a couple. He would only wish that Sherlock would still be a sociopathic genius after he began to gain his memory back, if he would at all. He snorted. That sounded so idiotic, wishing for somebody to still be a sociopath when they woke up from a coma.

"John!" That was the third time Lestrade had called his name.

"Sir!"

"At ease." Mycroft smirked, and John visibly relaxed.

"Sorry, you just shocked me a bit."

"Greg is going to try and help his memory along. Would you like to come as well?"

"Right… Yeah, good idea. I have to admit, I'm curious to see how much he remembers." Not exactly, he was more desperate for Sherlock to recognize him than anything.

They walked back into the room, John holding the door open for Mycroft and Lestrade.

"DI Lestrade. It's nice to see you again." Sherlock nodded at him. "Mycroft, would you care to explain to me what has happened?"

"You truly don't remember?" John couldn't help but cut in.

Sherlock squinted at him. "Truly. I don't think my brother properly introduced us." He held out his left hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

John smiled and reached out. "John Watson." He grasped his hand lightly. Sherlock flinched away as he did.

"Don't worry, its perfect normal for a coma patient to be hypersensitive to touch. It will fade soon."

John stepped back. "But how did you know I'm left handed? Did you deduce it?"

John felt a spark of hope growing inside of him. This might be proof that the consulting detective really hadn't changed too drastically.

Sherlock glanced at his own hand. "No… No, I just knew, that's all."

Suddenly his mood turned bitter and he pointed at Mycroft. "Enough distractions. Tell me what happened, now!"

"Rapid mood swings. Not at all uncommon." John murmured to Lestrade.

"Not that it wasn't before." He muttered back.

Mycroft sighed, not sure what to say. Lestrade asked Sherlock something else.

"Sherlock what day, or month even, do you think it is?"

Sherlock snorted. "How the hell should I know? I'm the one who was in a coma for ten days! Trauma patients often don't remember what day they slipped into the coma, don't expect me to."

"How do you know that?" John asked, trying to sound calm.

"I don't know! I just do!" Sherlock growled.

"Doctor Watson? Lestrade? Could I be alone with my brother? I need to fill him in on all the facts."

John looked like he was about to argue, so Lestrade decided to be safe and drag him out without another word.

"Wait! I have to tell, I was there!"

"I know, but this is something Mycroft has to do himself. I'm sorry John, I really am."

John tilted his head. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because Sherlock doesn't know who you are, I don't think he can even deduce things now. That has to be a little upsetting."

"Not really." John growled. "He's still my Sherlock and always will be."

John stalked back into Sherlock's room, ignoring Lestrade calling after him.

"Mind if I join you?" John struggled to keep his voice from shaking as he pulled a chair closer. If Sherlock heard the emotion he was trying to repress he made no sign.

"Of course Doctor Watson. Mycroft was just telling me about what happened at the public pool. Not surprising that I cannot remember, sounds very appalling and certainly shocking. But why were you there with me?"

"We-we share a flat together. We were working with the police against Moriarty, who I'm sure Mycroft has already told you about."

Sherlock nodded then turned back to Mycroft.

"Est-il dit la vérité?"

'_Is he telling the truth?'_

Mycroft nodded. "Oui. Vous pouvez lui faire confiance."

'_Yes. You can trust him.'_

John almost rolled his eyes. Only they would communicate in a different language.

"That's a good sign that you can still speak and understand a different language."

Sherlock turned to John and stared at him with his shocking grey eyes.

"Tu me recitaretur in Latin. Memini. Sed mauris. Lorem. You read to me in Latin. I remember. It was nice Thank you."

John coughed, trying to hide the blush that was creeping up his neck.

"Well, it's been awhile and I don't think I pronounced anything right…" This was so weird, Sherlock telling him he did something 'nice'.

"I think I know all that I need to, thank you Mycroft. When can I be released?" Sherlock paused, his eyes flicking to John. "Est-ce qu'il sera là? J'ai encore peine savent Docteur Watson."

'_Will he be there? I still barely know Doctor Watson.'_

"You can leave in a few weeks most likely. You still need to be monitored. Oui, il sera dans votre appartement avec vous. Mais vous pouvez lui faire confiance."

'_Yes, he will be in your apartment with you. But you can trust him.'_

"Fine." Sherlock shrugged. "Si vous le dites."

'_If you say so.'_


	5. Chapter 5

Days later, Sherlock was so desperate to leave the hospital he started to shamelessly flirt with the nurses (male or female), rip out his IV needles, and harass Mycroft (and poor Lestrade) to no end. The only person he seemed to leave alone was John.

"For fuck's sake, alright you can leave!" his doctor finally screamed at him, almost shoving Sherlock out the door, leaving John trailing behind them.

"I'll see your license revoked!" Sherlock spat as the sliding glass doors closed with a hiss. John was glad Lestrade had managed to convince Mycroft to go finally home and get back to work. That, and Mycroft was sick of hearing clinic staff griping about the raise in petrol prices, which he knew he could have prevented.

"C'mon Sherlock. Let's get you back to our flat." John grabbed his arm and started dragging him towards Mycroft's car. Normally Sherlock would have resisted, but he had refused to eat hospital food in another attempt at escape and was still weak.

Sherlock was silent on the ride over, staring out the darkened window with rapture. He rushed out of the car as soon it had pulled up to the curb. He pulled his long, navy blue coat closer as he stepped out, hissing at the cold. Mrs Hudson was waiting for them by the front door, eyes still red from crying.

"Sherlock! Your brother just called a moment ago. Oh, I just can't believe it, it's really you!" She kissed both his cheeks.

"Mrs Hudson," He wrapped his long limbs around the frail older woman. "How's your husband?"

She stared at him curiously. "Dead, dearie. In Florida, don't you remember the trial?"

Sherlock stepped back, clearly distressed. "Right. Yes, I remember now." he lied. "Sorry, my memory's still a bit fuzzy from whatever they put me on."

Mrs Hudson tutted. "You poor dear. Come in, you're so thin, you'll catch your death of cold out here, were they feeding you enough, can I make you a cuppa?"

John smiled. He had missed Mrs Hudson immensely, especially her motherly love. But mostly it was nice to have someone to make tea for them.

"I'm perfectly well Mrs Hudson." he brushed past her, but not rudely. "If you'll excuse me, I would like to see my flat again. It feels like it's been ages."

"We'll take a rain check on that cuppa though." John called down as he followed Sherlock upstairs.

Sherlock burst into their flat, glancing around with eagerness. Slowly his smile faded the more he looked. After only a few moments he sunk into John's chair by the fireplace, drumming his fingers and flicking his eyes around the flat.

"What? What's wrong?" John asked from the door where he was hanging up his own coat.

Sherlock grimaced. "It all seems wrong and right at the same time. I know this is my flat and it looks correct, but it doesn't feel like the way I left it. Like someone has been though my things and I haven't yet found out about it. Is that a skull?"

John looked to where Sherlock was pointing. "Yes. I named it Yorick a few weeks after I moved in. What do you think?"

"Yorick... From Hamlet?"

John looked shocked. "Yes, from Hamlet. It seemed appropriate. But when I called him-it Yorick you didn't understand what I meant by it."

Sherlock laughed. "'A fellow of infinite jest'. How could I forget?"

"Interesting." John whispered. "How about we go out to eat tonight? Angelo's sound good?"

"Angelo's?" Sherlock repeated.

"Right, sorry. You helped Angelo get off a murder charge a few years ago and now he gives us free dinners. Quite good too."

Sherlock shrugged. "Sure."

They walked out of the flat silently, in case Mrs Hudson stopped them again. John locked the door and turned to see Sherlock already striding off. In the wrong direction.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

Sherlock spun around, the end of his coat swirling around his legs.

"Other way."

Sherlock snorted. "Of course. I was simply... pacing while I was waiting for you." He stalked past John. "Hurry up!"

John sighed and smiled. Maybe the old Sherlock would be back sooner than he expected.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John paused just outside Angelo's, Sherlock trying to take in every inch of it.

"I've been here. It's hazy, but I know I've been here." His head snapped up with a jolt. "Yes! We were here, you and I, but not a date you said. And something about a cab and Americans and pills?" He looked to John for an explanation.

"It's a long story. Let's go and get dinner and I'll try to tell you."

Sherlock listened attentively, so engrossed in John's account he hardly ate his pasta. John talked for hours, barely eating his own meal as well. He recalled as best he could everything that had happened to them since they had first met. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. Would he ever have these shocking adventures with Sherlock again? What if his memory didn't fully return? And there was still the risk of him being inflicted with permanent memory loss. He snapped back to reality and finished his recollection, Sherlock patiently waiting for him to finish.

"I couldn't quite see Moriarty's face from where I was, but the way his voice changed… I'm not too proud to admit that I was terrified. 'I will burn the heart out of you.' I was so afraid for your life. For our lives. Then, before I could move, he was gone. You rushed over to me; not worrying that Moriarty could set the bomb off at any moment, and ripped it off, throwing it far away from us. You were thankful for what I offered to do, I could tell, but nervous too. Like you knew Moriarty might come back at any moment. You kept the gun in your hand, pacing back and forth. You even told me I did 'good'. I was so shocked, that was so unlike you. The old you anyway. Suddenly he was back, red dots dancing on our chests again. He kept saying how you couldn't be allowed to continue. I could see you had an idea, and I nodded at you, not caring what it was. And I knew we would be alright because I trusted you to always do the right thing for us. You were so brave, Sherlock, so strong and brave. Completely ignoring the snipers, you aimed the gun right at Moriarty's head. I felt a jolt of panic. I knew it would never work; only killing Moriarty, since we were still surrounded by snipers. But then, slowly, you moved the gun down to where you had thrown the coat covered in enough explosives to take out a city block. And I felt all my fear melting away. Sherlock would never hurt me, I thought. But I didn't know that you were going to hurt yourself instead. I heard you fire the gun and I jumped up to grab you to try and push us both in the pool so the shock would be lessened. But I was too late. I was thrown back from the blast and I couldn't see anything in the smoke and dust. I remember hitting my head on the tiles of the pool and being knocked unconscious. I woke up when I heard the sirens. I was buried under a pile of rubble and managed to dig myself out enough to watch you being carried away on a stretcher. I've never felt so horrified and upset. Ignoring all the other people on the site, I ran after you. But someone managed to stop me before I made it to you and I passed out. I woke up again at the hospital, disoriented. They almost had to knock me out again to keep me from running to you. After several escape attempts the doctors figured out to move me to your room and I hardly left the hospital until you woke up. That's everything I think. Anything before when I met you, you'll have to ask Mycroft or Lestrade about."

"Thank you John. You're an amazing storyteller." Sherlock smiled and squeezed John's hand, startling him. When had they started holding hands? Not that he could complain, it was cold in the restaurant and Sherlock was surprisingly warm. No other reason, right? He sighed.

"That's just what I remember; it's still a bit jumbled in my mind."

"Was I really like that?" Sherlock whispered.

John squeezed his hand back, grateful that the restaurant was empty. Whether that was Angelo's doing or if it really was later than he thought, John didn't know.

"A bloody genius? Of course, why would I lie about that?"

"No, not that, was I really that mean and rude? A psychopath?" Sherlock glared down at the table, clutching the tablecloth.

John sighed again, not sure how to answer. "Sometimes, you did act like a sociopath, but not a psychopath."

"Same thing." Sherlock muttered.

"No Sherlock. Not the same thing, because you cared. You wouldn't have admitted it, but you did. You cared for Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and me-Molly, I mean. You cared for all of them and still do."

"You forgot someone."

John glanced at him. "What, Lestrade too? Ok, just please don't say Anderson, he's impossible to like, even I agreed with the old you there."

"You, John."

John gasped, taken aback. "But with your memory loss, it's like we've only just met, that's…" he struggled for a word. "Irrational." No, that still sounded wrong.

"But I'm unlocking my old self's buried feelings, and now I'm not afraid to show them."

Sherlock reached out with his free hand to tilt John's chin up. He moved closer to John, his face illuminated by the candle Angelo always insisted on putting on their table. John was struck by just how beautiful Sherlock looked. His high cheekbones shadowed and gaunt looking, his pale eyes were shining in the weak light.

"I can finally tell people how I feel instead of hiding my emotions. I can show people how I feel."

Sherlock placed his lips against John's delicately, as if he was afraid of his reaction. When he didn't move, Sherlock kissed him harder, using his tongue to feel John's lips. John finally snapped to attention and began to kiss Sherlock back with the same passion. He moved his hand to Sherlock's curls, gently opening his mouth. John pulled away first, perhaps too soon, but he kept his hand in Sherlock's hair. He stared deep into his eyes.

"But at what cost?"


	7. Chapter 7

John shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen the next morning still shaking the sleep out of eyes.

"Morning." He muttered, watching Sherlock skip around the kitchen, somehow managing to not knock anything over with his impossibly long limbs.

"John! Great news!" he glided over to the table John was sitting at and planted a kiss on top of his head. "Turns out I knew how to cook, I just never did for some reason. Why would I do that? This is fun!"

John rubbed his face with his hands, grinning. "Back on the cocaine again?"

"Yuck, no drugs. I'm high on life!" Sherlock giggled and handed him a delicious smelling omelette.

John couldn't help but giggle too. "'High on life…' Were you up watching telly all night? That's the only place I could imagine you would pick up something that utterly stupid."

"Noooo…" Sherlock drawled. But John could see the dark circles under his eyes and the obvious coffee mugs piling up in the sink.

"Don't lie to me." John waved his fork at him. "I know when you're lying. I'm surprised you don't remember that by now."

"Fine, I didn't sleep. But I'm not tired." Sherlock slide into the chair next to John and took a bite of his own omelette.

"I don't care-god this is amazing-you need sleep."

Sherlock started to pout. John sighed; turns out he could still be a child sometimes.

"Don't even think about arguing. You need to at least nap. I have a big plan for today." John winked at him.

Sherlock seemed to perk up a little after this, and agreed to sleep, but only with his head on John's lap. Even on their couch, Sherlock could barely fit and John couldn't imagine how he would be able to sleep in such an uncomfortable position. John rolled his eyes and opened his book as Sherlock snuggled closer.

"There are moments that are made up of too much stuff for them to be lived at the time they occur." He murmured, his voice gently putting Sherlock to sleep. He continued to read the spy novel quietly until Sherlock woke up hours later.

"Hello." Sherlock whispered into John's chest, pulling himself up with his arms around his neck.

"Well hello." John answered. "Sleep well?"

"Of course."

John could see Sherlock already getting ready to let loose a bundle of pent up energy. He kissed his dark curls.

"Go get dressed. It's time for some experiments."

Before John could blink, Sherlock was running for the stairs and sprinting up them. John chuckled and followed slowly after him.  
>Before John was even out of his pyjamas Sherlock was pounding on his door.<p>

"Hurry up John! Lots to do!"

"Alright, Jesus! I don't think I've even seen a five year old this excited to go to the park."

Sherlock burst through John's door, and thankfully John was almost finished getting dressed and was just pulling on a shirt.

"Is that where we're going?"

"Shit! Sherlock, don't do that!"

"What? You didn't lock it."

"That's not the-oh never mind." John chose not to fight this battle. "Yes, Regent's Park. I wanted to see how much of your memory is returning and how quickly."

"On one condition."

"What's that?" John couldn't think of anything that Sherlock would want from this.

"I get to hold your hand." Sherlock grinned sweetly.

John rolled his eyes. Living Sherlock really was like living with a child. A six foot and one half inch child, but still.

John pretended to sighed dramatically. "Fine. If you behave. Whoa!"

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dragged him out the door, only letting him pause to grab his coat.

The walk over was bitterly cold and John cursed himself for not taking a warmer jacket, or at least a thicker jumper. Sherlock, of course, was wearing his favourite blue coat and scarf and even his leather gloves. He was the object of grace as he glided down the streets, taking in everything around him. John almost tripped over his own feet watching him.

Sherlock smirked at him and wrapped an arm around his waist, ignoring the exclamations of disdain and shame from an older couple they walked past.

"Careful love."

John stared at Sherlock's face, taking in every detail. The way his lips were perfectly smooth and Cupid's bow so pronounced. The way his hair flopped into his eyes but didn't quite reach the blue-grey pools.

"John?"

John shook his head, snapping out of his trance.

"What?"

"We're at the park. You might want to stop walking."

Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the park entrance.

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock smirked at him, well aware of the new power he wielded over John. "Shall we sit by the lake? The sun is finally starting to shine."

John looked up.

"Sure. This weather is perfect for my experiment."

John had guessed there would be a lot of people in the park despite the cold, and his assumptions were correct. They flopped down in an empty bench near the partially frozen lake and watched people pass by next to them.

John tried to talk but his teeth were chattering too much and he moved closer to Sherlock. Suddenly John felt something warm and soft around his neck. Sherlock was adjusting his own scarf on John's neck. John smiled gratefully at him.

"Ready to start?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Right, I first want to test your memory. See that tree nearby?" John pointed to a tall oak about eight feet away. "Can you see the bark? There should be some marks in it."

Sherlock squinted at the trunk. "I see. But why is this relevant?"

"Focus. What do they look like?"

"What, bullets holes? Oh! We were here, you and I and Lestrade." he growled. "Fighting Moriarty's agents." He jumped up suddenly, spinning around to look at where he was sitting.

"Where are the other bullet holes? I was the one that shot this bench."

John caught his wrist and pulled him back down. "They replaced the bench silly."

Sherlock sat down, clearly still agitated. "They almost killed you." He whispered.

"Yeah, that happens a lot."

Sherlock jerked back, his eyes wide.

"I'm kidding! I'm still here, aren't I?" John kissed him gently. "Now, experiment two. The Science of Deduction."

"I've heard that before… That's my website, right?"

"Correct. And we are going to see if you still have your extraordinary talents." John touched Sherlock's nose lightly, trying to lighten his mood. He glanced around for a few moments.

"There. That woman walking with the three little boys. Can you tell me anything about her?"

Sherlock glared at her for a few moments. "What's to tell? She obviously tired from taking care of her rather energetic sons."

"Nothing else?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. I'm sorry."

John grasped Sherlock's hand. "Don't be sorry. We'll get there."

"But what if I don't want to deduce things like I used to John? What if I turn into a complete arse again? What if I was cruel to you? I know I couldn't stand that."

Sherlock stood up and started kicking rocks into the pond, making them skip across the ice.

"All of life's 'what if's, are they worth it, worth the risk?"

John stood next to him, not quite touching, but close enough for Sherlock to sense him without glancing over.

"That's what humans were born to do, Sherlock. To take the risk that no one else dares to."

Sherlock tilted his head down, wishing he still had his scarf to hide in.

"I hate philosophy." He muttered.


	8. Chapter 8

Later, as they walked arm in arm through the park towards the entrance, John was silently formulating plans.

Sherlock, sensing that he was deep in thought, did not say a word. Instead, he focused his mind on his surroundings. Each billowing coat or tightly knit hat caught his attention, but for reasons he could not explain. _Why _did he know that woman was having an affair? _Why _did he know that gentleman's wife had died years ago? _Why _did he know that man was cheating his friends at card games? _Why _did he not understand _why _he knew these things? Sherlock shook his head. He was thinking too much.

Sherlock felt the need to voice these annoyingly ceaseless thoughts, but before he could, John lifted his head and spoke first.

"I think we need to skip straight to the end of our experiment."

Sherlock quirked his mouth up in a smirk. "Oh? Won't exactly get the best results that way, don't you think?"

"I know, but as much fun as I'm having today, I'm starting to get desperate."

This time Sherlock's eyebrow quirked up and his mouth quickly turned down in a confused frown. "Desperate? Desperate for what?"

John scowled at the slush under his feet, as though it had somehow betrayed him. "I dunno… Just forget I said anything."

"No, John." Sherlock planted his feet in the mud, pulling John back to face him. "Tell me, what did you mean?"

John shuffled his feet. "I know you said that you don't want to go back to being the old you but… It's just not the same!" he blurted out. "You're amazing now and I love you, but you're just not the same man who deduced my whole life's story all those months ago!"

Sherlock stood frozen, staring over John's shoulder. His face was completely blank and John began to panic.

"Oh god, oh god, I'm so sorry, I told you I shouldn't have said anything, oh god-"

"You said you love me." Sherlock whispered, never moving his eyes.

"I'm so sorry and now- excuse me?"

"You said 'I love you'. No one's ever said that to me before." Sherlock finally caught John's eye, tears pooling at his lashes.

"What really? Not even your mother? Oh, Sherlock…"

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin frame.

"I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry."

John snuggled into his coat, breathing in Sherlock's unique scent. He finally raised his head when he heard Sherlock muttering something.

"What was that?"

"The pool, John, the pool."

John swallowed nervously. "What about it?"

"We need to go. Right now."

"Now? Are you sure?"

Sherlock grinned wildly, tears still falling off his cheekbones. "Never more sure in all my life. Let's go!"


	9. Chapter 9

And there they were ten minutes later, standing in front of bright yellow police tape. Their breath billowed out into the cold air, and John desperately wished to be anywhere but here, for more reasons than just the weather.

Sherlock stood beside him, staring at the rubble with a face contorted by emotion.

John grabbed his hand in a comforting gesture. "You alright?"

"Mph," was the reply.

Sherlock ducked under the tape and lightly stepped onto the broken concrete.

John glanced around quickly, and then followed him under.

Sherlock was muttering to himself, pacing towards the ruined structure metal of the building.

John followed more slowly, watching fearfully for any chances of concrete falling on them. Not for snipers, he told himself. He was not just looking for snipers and criminal masterminds.

"So many memories, John. Oh god, so many memories." He stared almost wistfully at the remains of the doors where Moriarty had first stepped in through. "Everything is coming back so quickly…"

John reached for his hand again.

"I know. Me too."

And there they stood, hand in hand, comrades joined by an endless, bitter war. Two lone soldiers, battling against everything they knew.


End file.
